by
P. G. Wodehouse

Another day dawned all hot and fresh and, in pursuance of my unswerving policy at that time, I was singing “Sonny Boy” in my bath, when Jeeves’s voice filtered through the woodwork.

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

I had just got to that bit about the angels being lonely, where you need every ounce of concentration in order to make the spectacular finish, but I signed off courteously.

“Yes, Jeeves? Say on.”

“Mr. Glossop, sir.”

“What about him?”

“He is in the sitting room, sir.”

“Young Tuppy Glossop?”

“Yes, sir,” Jeeves answered in his monosyllabic way.

“You say that he is in the sitting room?” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Desiring speech with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“H’m!”

“Sir?”

“I only said ‘H’m.’”

And I’ll tell you why I said “H’m.” It was because the man’s story had interested me strangely. And I’ll tell you why the man’s story had interested me strangely. Owing to a certain episode that had occurred one night at the Drones’ Club, there had sprung up recently a coolness, as you might describe it, between this Glossop and myself. The news, therefore, that he was visiting me at my flat, especially at an hour when he must have known that I would be in my bath and consequently in a strong strategic position to heave a wet sponge at him, surprised me considerably.

I hopped out with some briskness and, slipping a couple of towels about the torso, made for the sitting room. I found young Tuppy at the piano, playing “Sonny Boy” with one finger.

“What ho!” I said, not without hauteur.

“Oh, hullo, Bertie,” said Tuppy. “I say, Bertie, I want to see you about something important.”

It seemed to me that the bloke was embarrassed. He had moved to the mantelpiece, and now he broke a vase in a constrained way.

“The fact is, Bertie, I’m engaged.”

“Engaged?”

“Engaged,” said young Tuppy, coyly dropping a photograph frame upon the fender. “Practically, that is.”

“Practically?”

“Yes. You’ll like her, Bertie. Her name is Cora Bellinger. She’s studying for opera. Wonderful voice she has. Also dark, flashing eyes and a great soul.”

“How do you mean, ‘practically’?”

“Well, it’s this way. Before ordering the trousseau there is one little point she wants cleared up. You see, what with her great soul and all that, she has a rather serious outlook on life, and the one thing she absolutely bars is anything in the shape of hearty humour. You know, practical joking and so forth.

“She said if she thought I was a practical joker she would never speak to me again. And unfortunately she appears to have heard about that little affair at the Drones’.... I expect you have forgotten all about that, Bertie?”

“I have not!”

“No, no, not forgotten exactly. What I mean is, nobody laughs more heartily at the recollection than you. And what I want you to do, old man, is to seize an early opportunity of taking Cora aside and categorically denying that there is any truth in the story. My happiness, Bertie, is in your hands, if you know what I mean.”

Well, of course, if he put it like that, what could I do? We Woosters have our code.

“Oh, all right,” I said, but far from brightly.

“Splendid fellow!”

“When do I meet this blighted female?” I asked.

“Don’t call her ‘this blighted female,’ Bertie, old man. I have planned all that out. I will bring her around here to-day for a spot of lunch.”

“What!”

“At one-thirty. Right. Good. Fine. Thanks. I knew I could rely on you.”

He pushed off, and I turned to Jeeves, who had shimmered in with the morning meal.

“Lunch for three to-day, Jeeves,” I said.

“Very good, sir.”

“You know, Jeeves, it’s a bit thick. You remember my telling you about what Mr. Glossop did to me that night at the Drones’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“For months I have been cherishing dreams of a hideous vengeance. And now, so far from crushing him into the dust, I’ve got to fill him and fiancée with rich food, and generally rally round and be the good angel.”

“Life is like that, sir.”

“True, Jeeves. What have we here?” I asked, inspecting the tray.

“Kippered herrings, sir.”

“And I shouldn’t wonder,” I said, for I was in thoughtful mood, “if even herrings haven’t troubles of their own.”

“Quite possibly, sir.”

“I mean, apart from getting kippered.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And so it goes on, Jeeves, so it goes on.”

I can’t say I saw exactly eye to eye with young Tuppy in his admiration for the Bellinger female. Delivered on the mat at one-twenty-five, she proved to be an upstanding light-heavyweight of some thirty summers with a commanding eye and a square chin which I, personally, would have steered clear of.

She seemed to me a good deal like what Cleopatra would have been after going in too freely for the starches and cereals. I don’t know why it is, but women who have anything to do with opera, even if they’re only studying for it, always appear to run to surplus poundage.

Tuppy, however, was obviously all for her. His whole demeanour, both before and during luncheon, was that of one striving to be worthy of a noble soul. When Jeeves offered him a cocktail he practically recoiled as from a serpent. It was terrible to see the change which love had effected in the man. The spectacle put me off my food.

At half-past two the Bellinger left to go to a singing lesson. Tuppy trotted after her to the door, bleating and frisking a goodish bit, and then came back and looked at me in a marked manner.

“Well, Bertie?”